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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25418146">First Impressions</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrowlion/pseuds/Arrowlion'>Arrowlion</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Six - Marlow/Moss</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>First Meetings, Gen, Reincarnation, Writing Exercise</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:47:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,383</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25418146</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrowlion/pseuds/Arrowlion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Brief descriptions of each of the queens at the dawn of their new life, before they forge the bonds of family.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>First Impressions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This started as a personal reference for the physical appearance of each queen and I got carried away- I love doing over-the-top descriptions with words that I’d never use in most of my writing.</p><p>In my version of the queens’ reincarnation story, most of them despised each other at the beginning (with a few exceptions.) It took a while for them to patch up the old wounds. These take place before they’ve let down their guards and gotten to know each other.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>The First Wife</p>
</div>She commanded a room and respect.<p>Seniority and authority permeated her bearing, straightening her spine and lifting her chin. She had tawny skin, curly black hair that faded to russet-gold, and warm brown eyes that managed to look down on everyone else regardless of height. None of the vicissitudes of modern life could upset her unfailing equanimity. She delivered censure and commendation alike with tight lips and stiff composure. </p><p>For a lesser woman than she, such a demeanor would have come across as haughty. But for the first wife, it was no less than her education and experience called for. This was a queen who had ridden north in full armor, abdomen swollen with child to come, and given words that urged men to war. She was a polyglot, a patroness, a philanthropist, and to top it all, she carried the self-assurance shared only by those who truly believe they have God on their side.</p><p>Her faith kept her standing, or rather, on her knees. The most devout of them all, the loyal wife, the rightful queen, adored and betrayed, she kneeled on the floor and prayed for forgiveness.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>The Second Wife</p>
</div>She never seemed to tire, as though lightning pulsed through her veins.<p>Her eyes relayed her nature. They were sea-foam green, not in regard to the lurid teal color to which paint corporations cheerfully assign the name, but in the true sense of it, the color of frothy storm-tossed waves, a likeness that hinted at her equally stormy temperament. </p><p>She tied her hair, sleek and brunette, into twin buns atop her head, where it stayed out of her way. The other wives were well-advised to do the same. Capricious, wild, indomitable, her spirit was restless and poured out of her in fits of passion. Her body moved to match, never still, always twitching, tapping, moving this way and that, pacing like a caged panther. </p><p>She harbored no fondness for silence. Words flew from her tongue, almost overlapping, as though her larynx was insufficient to match the pace of her thoughts. She was remarkably skilled at nettling the others, in particular the first wife, but presented a formidable opponent to counterattack: not only did she make a ready weapon of wit, but she also held no qualms about physical confrontation. A hurricane could hope to rival her energy, only to fall spectacularly short.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>The Third Wife</p>
</div>She clung to the faded memories.<p>She cosseted ghosts. She caressed specters. She coddled echoes. The past followed her wherever she walked. </p><p>Bound to obey and serve, and the shackles still confined her. She pined for what had been when the others wanted nothing more than to forget it.  Her moonstone-blue eyes were often distant, and every now and then glimmered with water that threatened to spill down her cheeks.  They gazed out of a startlingly youthful face, framed by tresses the color of straw.</p><p>There was love in her full figure and her soft hands. She guarded it jealously, saving it for her lost son. Nevertheless, it managed to overflow. Small acts of kindness- clothes mended, damask curtains lending color to each room, meals prepared for all of them- went unacknowledged, but not unnoticed. And if any of them could subdue the disputes that arose, it was the third wife, though even she was often compelled to participate rather than pacify. Their resentment toward her, for her favored status among them all, furthered her yearning for the bygone eras and the family she had lost.</p><p>None of them, least of all the third wife herself, realized that she was already building a new one.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>The Fourth Wife</p>
</div>She exuded confidence.<p>A tall figure, of stalwart build and skin the color of sand at sunset. Her hair was cropped close to her head, where it couldn’t interfere with her field of vision. She took in everything with sable eyes that dared anyone to challenge her. None would dream of it, for if her imposing athleticism wasn’t sufficient to deter them, her low contralto voice, calm and commanding, was enough to remind others that she was a force to be reckoned with. </p><p>Somehow, at the same time, one wanted to be around her. Rather than perching stiffly on the edge of chairs and couches, as the others were wont to do, she leaned back and let her powerful frame go lax. For although it was clear that she was not to be trifled with, she was easygoing. Tensions and tempers always ran high, yet the fourth wife never once raised her tone in anger.</p><p>When she spoke, she spoke her mind, and while her candor at times bordered on tactlessness, it was never her intention to ruffle anyone’s feathers. She simply knew her opinions and saw no harm in expressing them. At the same time, if she thought there was nothing to be said, she could be silent for hours on end. </p><p>As solid as she was, there was one chink in her otherwise impenetrable armor, one person for whom her voice melted into liquid honey. When their eyes met, they spoke not, but both minds drifted away, back to satin and midnight, viols and mistletoe, with melodies ringing in their ears as they danced.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>The Fifth Wife</p>
</div>She was the most beautiful girl that any of them had ever seen.<p>Hair stolen from the pelt of an otter, dark, glossy waves that cascaded down to her waist. Eyes the color of burnt umber, large and liquid, but haunted like a flightless songbird and ringed with lilac underneath. Full lips, a soft, girlish face, and a high, clear voice that sang when she spoke. Pale, translucent skin that clung to a sylphlike frame, somehow small despite her willowy build.</p><p>Yet her innocent beauty was incomplete, marred by features too prominent to overlook. A thick, jagged red scar encircled her neck, protruding from her skin. Beyond that, she was too thin to be healthy: her clothes hung off of her jutting bones, while her arms appeared as brittle as twigs. </p><p>Then there was the shadow that seemed to hang over her, perpetually weighing her down, squeezing the breath from her lungs and sending shudders down her spine. She flinched away from demons that existed only for her. The most minor sensations, from a few gentle notes of lutesong to the accidental brush of a hand against her thigh, could send her into such a state that not one of them could return her to reality. In spite of these undesirable traits, or perhaps even more so because of them, it was difficult to tear one’s eyes away from her. Dark whispers chased her out of every room.</p><p>She didn’t speak for three days.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>The Final Wife</p>
</div>She was consumed with hunger.<p>There was no end to it, no repast that could ever satiate her. She hunted for words: symposiums and compendiums, archives and articles, cover to cover, prolegomenon to addendum. She devoured them all with voracity, yet it was never enough. So much of what she had known before was superannuated now, leaving a gaping void that she was desperate to fill with knowledge from the sixteenth century to the present. </p><p>And so they saw little of her, and she little of them. Confined to her room, a pale cast clung to her sepia-brown skin, while her hair was a lion’s mane of untamed curls. Her long fingers were stained with ink, and dark stains likewise bedaubed much of her attire. Similar to the fifth wife, she had sleepless lines etched upon her face, but her eyes somehow remained bright. They were the color of the coffee that kept her conscious well into the night, embellished by golden flecks like drops of sunlight. </p><p>Her efforts, though they temporarily cost her health and happiness, paid off well. The others could turn to her for information, and she gave it readily. Her diminutive height belied the presence she held when she walked into a room. She was not feared, but she was respected. Yet despite the role she carved out for herself as the savant of contemporary life, even the survivor could not escape the shadows of the past that dug their teeth into her with every glare from the queen whom she had so terribly wronged.</p>
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